The matutinal sun rose, clear and resplendent, over the verdant olive-groves and vineyards of the

Shiré.  The hobbites rose rather later, and made their leisurely way to the marriage feast, which

had been prepared in the café just outside the Pony prançant.

Samouard Gamgès and Rosédès Cotolon sat at the head of the table, across from M. Morrie, the

benefactor who had offered Samouard a position as captain on board the Pharazon and had given

the couple a very respectable dowry, including a mushroom farm.

“The mushrooms excel in the pays de Magot,” he said.  “They execute truly remarkable effects on

those who partake of them, and are said to render one’s sex life interesting in the highest

degree.”

“Monsieur, your generosity towards me is of the most stupefying,” replied Gamgès.  “I were naught

but a ninnihammier, and worse, did I not wholeheartedly acknowledge my debt.”

M. Morrie shrugged off this praise and opened a bottle of Vieux Vignobles.

Gamgès was clad with becoming simplicity in a sailor suit à la Gondor; Rosédès, lovely as an

elf-maid from Rivendeau or Lottaloria, sashayed with the light, free step of a Longbottommienne.

To the right of Gamgès sat Pippand, who was acting as best man with the best dramatic flair

whereof he was capable, which regrettably was not very good: he looked as if he were about to

kill someone with his wineglass. Fortunately, no one noticed him at all, while

Sacqueville-Danglars and Buttrebeurrousse, who sat to Samouard’s left, smiled to perfection,

Sacqueville-Danglars because he was sure of succeeding in his plans, Buttrebeurrousse in

anticipation of the Vieux Vignobles.  Next to Morrie sat Samouard’s venerable and apoplectic old

father, Hamphât Gamgès.

“My son knows how to do these things comme il faut,” he proudly told M. Morrie.  “There are

some not far away” – he glanced at Sacqueville-Danglars – “who would refuse a glass of wine, or

even their mistress, to their best friends, if they lived in a golden palace.  Not so Samouard.”

“Good old Samouard!” cried Buttrebeurrousse.  “Speech!  Speech!”

Samouard Gamgès rose and declaimed, his voice reverberating through the air of the café with

penetrating resonance: “Eh bien, my dear Cotolons, Gamgès, Sacqueville-Dangars,

Buttrebeurrousses, and in especial my patron M. Morrie,” announced Gamgès.  “I have called you

together for two purposes.  Firstly, to thank you all for this attestation of friendship you show

me in coming to this humble but loving feast, and especially to Monsieur Morrie for patronizing

me with such condescension, and Pippand for giving up the girl for me.”

Loud huzzahs and bravos re-echoed through the café, although, had Samouard been more observant,

he might have noticed an evil sarcastic glint in Sacqueville-Danglars’s eye, as well as the fact

the fact that Pippand was silently slashing his mushrooms with his dagger.

“Secondly,” continued the happy groom, “to make an ANNOUNCEMENT.  Today is our nuptial day.  We

wed today, et c’est un fait, ça!  Your number, indeed, was specially chosen to represent the

number of hours per night I will make love to my wife!”

This sally redoubled the hilarity of the guests, eliciting a fresh burst of applause.  This was

he sort of thing the company liked: short, obvious, witty in a vaguely naughty way, and which did

not interrupt the drinking.

“You neglected to make the third announcement,” said the gendarme Robert Petit-Bourreau, who had

entered unnoticed during the applause.  “I regret to announce that, although” (glancing at a

document) “35 years is far too short a time to send among such excellent hobbites, M. Samouard

Gamgès is departing NOW.  For I am the reluctant bearer of an order of arrest.  Adieu,

messieurs-dames.”

Gamgès was flabbergasted.  “There is in this surely some mistake,” he cried.  “I committed no

crime except underage smoking!”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” said the gendarme, calmly and efficiently removing Gamgès from

the assembly.

Old Hamphât sprang forward, supplicating in tears so eloquent that even the gendarme was touched,

and said kindly though firmly, “Mon cher ami, permit that I calm your apprehensions.  He will

according to all probability have simply forgotten to register the pipe-weed cargo at the

shirriferie, and will be set at liberty directly.”

"Why yes," said old Hamphât. "He said he was bringing me tobacco from Isengard!" And so the old

hobbite was, at least for the moment, comforted, though he could not forgo one last paternal

admonition: "Do not forget your waistcoat, mon fils!"

The grief of Rosédès was not so easily allayed. "Adieu, adieu, dearest Samouard!" she cried,

extending her arms from the balcony like the exiles of Valinor yearning for the hither shore,

from which they must depart for ever.

"Farewell, Rosédès!" cried Samouard in return. "We shall meet again soon, et c'est un fait, ça!"  

Hélas, it was not.

There was a silence, and then every Morrie, Cotolon, Gamgès, Sacqueville-Danglars, and

Buttrebeurrousse began talking at once.  It was generally agreed that the pleasantry was de fort

mauvais goût, and much Mordeaux and caviar would be required to cure the guests of their

annoyance.  It must however be admitted that Sacqueville-Danglars got over whatever annoyance he

may have felt (if any) remarkably quickly, and his conspiratorial wink directed at

Butrebeurrousse and Pippand betrayed his true feelings.

Buttrebeurrousse muttered to Sacqueville-Danglars sotto voce, “You see what you have done was no

pleasantry at all.  I am determined to reveal it to this grieving old father and this sorrowful

bride."

"Be silent!" insisted Sacqueville-Danglars. "If Gamgès be truly guilty, anyone of us, including

you, will have an exorbitant fine to pay if we take his part."

Buttrebeurrousse shuddered and nodded, and said no more.


***

In the meantime, yet another wedding festivity was under way, for M. de Villefaramir was

preparing to marry Finduilette, the charming daughter of those solid Aragonnists, the Marquis and

Marquise d’Imrahil. Villefaramir had been appointed steuard du roi, a magistrate entrusted with

judging opponents of Aragon’s régime and other criminals.  Everyone who was anyone in the Shiré

was present, including a pretty if somewhat sinister demoiselle by the name of Béruthielle, who

gave Finduilette the evil eye.

"Mon cher son-in-law," said Mme. d'Imrahil, "I do hope you remember that you must wash away the

stain of your father Dénéthoirtier's Sharcoléonist sympathies by being especially severe against

the acolytes of that degenerate faction."

"But, ma mère," protested Finduilette, "surely we must be merciful to those who have committed no

crime beyond their beliefs. Let Pity stay my husband's hand. Pity, and mercy: not to strike

without need."

"You are young and full of foolish romantic notions, ma fille," replied the Marquise, shaking her

had with maternal indulgence. "You really must read less Gandault and more Féanoir."

"Madame," replied M. de Villefaramir, "Your daughter is not wholly wrong, nor wholly right.

Tempering the severity of justice with the mildness of pity is a delicate art, not unlike that of

sculpting stone Trolls or writing lists of frequently asked questions. We must be as just as our

little wisdom allows …"

He was interrupted at this point by a messenger, who handed him a letter,

which he quickly scanned. "My apologies," he said. "Pressing business, which bids fair to make

work for the bourreau, calls me away from this charming tête-à-tête. I must, alas, examine a

prisoner."

"Oh, my spouse!" cried Finduilette. "Be merciful, I beg you, on this day of our trothplighting!"

"Non! Do not be too gentle!" admonished Mme. d'Imrahil. "The Sharcoléonists are responsible for

bringing in the ruffians and for all the evil they have done."

"I will be a model of judicial rigor, Madame," he replied, but his smile told his bride that he

would be anything but.

***

On arriving in his office, M. de Villefaramir observed the usual niceties of his exalted

position, which chiefly involved making the accused wait as long as humanly, or inhumanly,

possible. Finally he assumed the gravity that his office required.

"Let the accused be brought into my presence," he commanded.

If he hoped to see an abject halflingue cringing with dread, he was isappointed. The hobbite who

stood before him exhibited all the indignation of falsely accused innocence.

"Who and what are you?" interrogated Villefaramir.

"Samouard Gamgès, a hobbite," replied the accused.

"You are charged with plotting to overthrow Aragon and restore the usurper Sharcoléon," said the

steuard gravely. "What do you have to say in reply?"

His face was stern and commanding, and a keen wit lay behind his searching glance.

"See here, steuard!" replied Samouard, planting himself squarely in front of Villefaramir, with a

look on his face as if he were addressing a hobbite-gamin who had offered what he called "blague"

when questioned about visits to the bordels. "I've never had any political opinions at all, for I

find them rather above my station, and expensive besides. Monsieur, today is my wedding day, and

I expected to marry my beloved and become captain, not spend the happiest day of my life in

prison."

Villefaramir looked at Gamgès closely. It was obvious that the halflingue was speaking the truth,

for his nose did not grow. Moreover, Gamgès's account of the interrupted wedding feast struck a

sympathetic chord in Villefaramir's bosom; and he pondered the sensation he would make at his own

party by elaborating on the paradox that summoned him from his own felicity to destroy that of

another. This thought, and the expectation of Finduilette's gratitude at his mercy, rendered the

steuard's physiognomy so joyous, that Gamgès smiled in return.

"Do you have any enemies?" inquired M. de Villefaramir. "Perhaps your cargo contained something

of value, and such things rarely breed peace among confederates, as is shown time and again in

the works of Baguin."

"I have no enemies, monsieur," replied Gamgès. "Although Pippand seemed a bit fâché during the

wedding feast; perhaps the mushrooms did not agree with him. And Sacqueville-Danglars once

challenged me to a duel when I complained that he was taking more than his share of spoons … That

is all that comes to mind."

Villefaramir nodded sagely. "My friend, I believe you to be innocent; yet I must do my duty. What

do you have to say about the letter you were going to deliver from Sharcoléon?"

"I was doing so at the behest of my captain on his deathbed, monsieur le steuard," said Gamgès.

“Never disobey your captain's last wishes, never, never, never, never; that was my right rule,

the unshakable principle of my life."

"Ah, I see," returned Villefaramir. "Or I see that it may have been so. I must, however, enjoin

you, in the name of Justice, to show me this letter."

Gamgès retrieved the letter from his backpack, where it was sequestered amid pots, pans, rope,

tobacco pouches, tawdry brooches from Lottaloria, and other bagatelles that Samouard fancied.

M. de Villefaramir took one look at the envelope, and gasped with horror. It was addressed to his

father, Dénéthoirtier! Had the room collapsed like the Tour de Barad-dour in the novel of Bilbon,

the steuard could not have been more stupefied, nay crushed. With trembling hand he removed the

letter, and as he read, his face assumed an expression of greater and greater terror, until by

the end of it he was shaking. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands.

"Do you need some cognac, M. le steuard?" inquired Gamgès. "You look unwell; I will ring for

assistance at once."

"No!" cried Villefaramir. "I alone command here."

"Monsieur, it was to aid you," said Gamgès.

"I want no aid," replied Villefaramir. "I need no aid. It was but a temporary malaise." "Oh, if

he knows the content of this letter," he thought, "I am annihilated."

"This letter … I am only speaking for your own good … this letter must be destroyed at once,"

said Villefaramir in a quavering voice.

He seized the letter forthwith and threw it into the fireplace, where

it crackled merrily and burnt like the apéritifs of the balrogues.

"Oh, you are goodness itself!" cried Gamgès.

"Now m…your secret is safe," said the steuard. "Tomorrow you will be freed. But should anyone

question you on this letter, deny all knowledge."

"Why not release me at once?" asked Gamgès. "Rosédès awaits."

"There are certain formalities that must be observed before you can be delivered from prison,"

replied M. deVillefaramir. "But short now, doubt not, will be your abiding there."

"Good monsieur, kind monsieur, wise monsieur!" cried Gamgès. "You are too gracious to me!"

Villefaramir sighed, but made no answer.